


Darts

by anomalation



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 20:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17029467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalation/pseuds/anomalation
Summary: The first few months of Natasha and Clint's acquaintance. Vaguely canon-compliant.





	Darts

Okay, so this looks bad. And it is pretty bad. It’s just been a shitty, shitty day. Way before he got into a fight with some kind of Goddamn Soviet spy, Clint decided this day was basically a wash.

There wasn’t even supposed to be a spy here. He was just stopping in for some pierogis and instead there was some girl acting sneaky in line and when she went to the bathroom he just had to follow because something was obviously up. And she wasn’t even going to the bathroom, she was sneaking into the office and picking the safe so this fight has to be super quiet, or else Mrs. Wachowski will hear and totally misinterpret the situation and then he’ll have to find some other place to get award-winning pierogis. Like _that_ is even possible in this neighborhood. The other Polish place is greasy bullshit and everybody knows it.

He’s getting off track. The more important point is that the pen he threw should’ve definitely hit her in the throat and it didn’t. She must be enhanced or something. Combined with her insanely good hand-to-hand skills - with the distinctive Soviet style he recognizes from those mobsters a couple years ago - it’s a real pain in his ass.

“Look,” he says when they’re apart for a moment, both breathing heavily. “Can you give up? This isn’t a good place for me to get into a fight, and I really just want some pierogis.”

The spy tilts her head. “You’re the one who tried to stop me,” she says. “You give up.” And she tries to duck under his reach and sweep his legs with a kick.

Clint sighs very deeply, and somersaults over her kick. They end up on opposite sides of the room again, but flipped. She’s near the safe now. “Lady, I know you’ve probably got an agenda from the other side of the Iron Curtain and everything but Mrs. Wachowski is a nice person. Her husband’s a dentist. They don’t have any kids.”

“I’m not working for Russia.”

“Your accent says otherwise,” he fires back, and then adds, “If that’s true, then why are you here?”

“This is the most successful business in ten blocks,” she answers grudgingly.

Hands on his hips, Clint glares at her. “Don’t tell me you were going to steal from a little old lady.”

“Your use of the past tense is incorrect,” she says, like a fucking robot, and he has to fight her again. But this time she seems rattled. It’s not easy, but he manages to catch her while she’s slipping away from him and slams down onto her on her back, knocking the wind out of her. Like, hard. And while she’s trying to breathe, he offers her his hand.

“Hey. I’m Clint. You like Polish food?”

She accepts his hand, though she doesn’t seem to understand why, and when she’s standing again he’s ready for her to sucker punch him. But she doesn’t. “I have no preferences,” she says stiffly, and adjusts her hair. Clint doesn’t really notice this shit but now he realizes that the entire fight hasn’t managed to displace a single strand of hair or smear her makeup. That’s impressive.

“Okay… well instead of steal from the lady, how about you buy some of her food and leave?” Clint suggests.

“Because I have no money,” this chick says, just real blasè.

Clint digs in his back pocket to see what kind of cash he has. For once, more than he thought. “Well, you’re lucky I have ten bucks today, I can spot you. Get the cheese ones if it’s your first time. There’s just no comparison.”

“Cheese,” she repeats.

“Are you unfamiliar with that food group?”

That gets her to smile, to the surprise of both of them. “I am familiar,” she says.

“Good. Then c’mon. You’re gonna regret almost robbing her.”

“I will not.”

He regards her, her ice-cold expression, and he has to admit she probably has a point. “Well, maybe not the robbing part, but you’d regret being banned for life. Best pierogis in the city.”

She says nothing, but lets him lead her back out into the shop, and takes the shallow paper tray of food from him when he offers it. “What is this?” she says, regarding the tray dubiously.

“Sour cream. For dipping.” Clint already has half of one in his mouth. The woman looks at him expressionlessly, and then follows suit. “You live around here?” he asks, as they walk out onto the sidewalk.

“Do you?” she fires back.

Clint points at her with his fork. “Okay, if you’re not a spy then how come you do that?”

“What?”

“Answer questions with questions.”

“Maybe I’m not interested in telling strange men where they can find me,” she says coolly. She’s done most things coolly, now that he thinks about that too.

“Okay,” he says. “Fine. Hypothetically that could be true. Then what’s your name?”

Her pause there definitely gives him his answer. “Natasha,” she finally says. “And I’m not a spy. Anymore.”

“Ah ha!” Sour cream comes out of his mouth, which is admittedly not super cool. The look she gives him is pretty much justified. But so is his point. “Cool,” he says. “Also, I called it.”

She gives him a blank look. “Called what?”

“Oh boy. You’ve spent a lot of time undercover, I take it?” Then he cuts her off, “Yeah, yeah I know, you’re not interested in telling me. I’ll just assume I’m right.” He takes another bite, watching how tightly wound she is. She’s examining every passing person. “Do you live anywhere, right now?” he asks.

“Yes. Do you?”

“No.”

Her brow furrows. “No?”

“Nope.”

“You’re homeless.”

“I’m flexible,” he corrects her. “Which is good for my line of work.”

“And what is that?”

“Professional darts.”

Natasha seems dumbstruck by him. “You talk a lot,” she finally says. “And I still know nothing about you.”

Clint puts one finger on the side of his nose, then points at her. “Now you’re beginning to catch on. Come on. Stick with me for the night, and I guarantee you’ll have a hundred bucks at the end of the night.”

“Only a hundred?”

“Alright, cut the attitude,” Clint frowns. “That’s a minimum. And it’s not like you’ve got a lot of room to be super picky, here.” But he’s looking now, and sees her clothes are definitely expensive. A little old, but sleek as shit. So she’s fallen on hard times recently. As much as it’s inconvenient, he pities that.

“Where are we going?”

So they’re a we, now. He hasn’t been a we since Barney. “The Battered Hag,” he says. “Bar in Hell’s Kitchen, I can show you the way. It’s game night.”

“Game night,” she repeats.

“I wasn’t kidding about the darts.”

He wasn’t. He loses enough so people will bet on the other guy, but he wins money at darts every Tuesday and Friday, and that’s his only source of income. “Make bets,” he tells Natasha, giving her a dollar. “We’ll split whatever we make.” And at first he doesn’t understand why her eyes light up so intensely, but then he sees her hanging off the arms of guys and getting them to place increasingly stupid bets, and the picture gets a little clearer.

At the end of the night, she has more than six hundred dollars, double his take. “Damn,” he says. “So you’re a honeypot.”

“Yes.” Her mouth curls up at the corners. “So you have pretty good aim,” she says, counting singles into his hand. She probably thinks that’s nonchalant.

“Raised in a circus,” he agrees cheerfully.

“Do ever truly miss?”

“No.”

Natasha looks up, her hands never slowing. Her eyes look at him with intense interest. “What do you do, when you’re not doing darts.”

“Not much.”

“You’d be an incredible assassin,” she says.

“Nah. Not interested.” He folds his stack of cash up and puts it in his pocket. “I got caught doing something good, so. Chances aren’t good I’d get away with anything actually criminal.”

“You’d get away if you were working with me.”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “You haven’t told me where you live, but you’re willing to work assassinations with me? Talk about priorities.”

Natasha just shrugs. And even just in shrugging, something about her is electric to him. The night is warm, smelling less like piss than usual. “We’re young,” she says. “Isn’t it time to be reckless?”

“Don’t you try that,” he glares. “I’m not an idiot. Don’t try and honeypot me, I won’t fall for it. Even if I’m both young _and_ reckless. I was going to ask you to go dutch on a motel room, but now I don’t think I can.”

“You can,” she says, heat fading into coldness again as she leans away. He didn’t notice her lean in. “I’m sure I’ll be able to control myself around you. What are you, a teenager?”

“I’m twenty-two,” he says indignantly. “I was drinking at the bar.”

“The bartender didn’t check.”

“How do you like it if I turn the tables?” Clint continues, still offended. “How old are you?”

“Seventy-six,” she says, deadpan.

“Alright fine, don’t tell me. You want somewhere to stay or not?”

Clint would swear to anybody he can see in her eyes the debate of if she’ll lie to him or not, and claim to have somewhere already. But she doesn’t, in the end. “If you try to steal from me, I’ll break every finger,” she says.

“If you try to steal from me, I’ll shoot you in the femur,” he counters.

Natasha smiles for the second time since he’s known her, eyes warm but not hot. “We have an understanding, then.”

“I guess we do.”

They’re walking to the motel. She’s so unassuming, he’d almost lose track of her standing right next to him. But in any event, they’re walking past a convenience store when he remembers, “I’m twenty-three.”

“You don’t know how old you are?” Natasha says flatly.

“It’s my birthday,” he answers.

 

 

“How would you like to make a little money?” Natasha asks for the billionth time. She keeps sneaking this shit on him when she thinks he’s susceptible - this time probably because his debit card got declined.

“I don’t want to be an assassin with you,” he says, as always.

This time, her response is different. “Are you sure?”

Clint regards her with open surprise. “What the fuck? Are you begging?”

She colors. “No.”

“For you, you kind of are. Is something wrong?”

He reads the answer on her face before she says it. “No.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” She bought him the Faygo when his card wouldn’t cover it. Before he opens it, he clarifies, “Opening this drink is in no way an acceptance of debt. I don’t owe you.”

Natasha pretends to be exasperated, but he sees a trace of disappointment in her mouth. She says something under her breath; he can’t see what she said.

“What?” he say impatiently.

“I need backup,” she repeats louder. “Please.”

Magic words. She never asks for anything she doesn’t know she can get, so this must be a big deal. Or she must know she’d be able to manipulate him into helping, but Clint doesn’t think so. “Who you going after?” he asks after taking a sip.

“Can’t talk about it here.” In a corner store. Good point. She flicks her hair back from her face. It’s longer than it was when they met, brushing her shoulders, and Clint wonders how long she’ll let it get.

They talk in his apartment - shitty, one room, no kitchen. Just a sink and a hot plate. Clint sits on his bed leaning against the wall, and Natasha stands.

“The target’s Lucas Keller,” she says.

“The fucking general?”

She was hoping he wouldn’t know that. “I can’t tell you what he’s done,” she begins.

“He’s firmly anti-Russia,” Clint counters, unscrewing the bottle cap. “And I know you can’t confirm or deny, but this is basically confirmation that you work for Russia. Or Russian interests.”

“No it isn’t,” Natasha says while he’s drinking.

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, it basically is.”

She’s still not happy with that, but she stops arguing and that’s further confirmation. “This isn’t a one-man op,” she says. “I can’t do it alone.”

“So call one of your Soviet friends.”

“They can’t fly in in time.” That’s a lie. He’s starting to know more of her tells, though he’s not giving it away before he has to. “Bring something to cover your face with. I have the rest handled.”

So she wants him to use a gun, probably one she’ll get rid of after the fact. Fuck, she wants him to assassinate a member of the United States military, currently working in the Pentagon. It’s gonna be one hell of a gun. Maybe it’ll be some kind of poison dart, that’d be cool.

“You want me to actively work against the country I live in,” Clint says. The country his dad fought for, as much as he fought for anything besides liking to fight. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. At least in the context of working to destabilize it for Russia. Shit, this is getting complex. “Keller’s not a bad guy. If he were a bad guy you wouldn’t be asking me to kill him.”

Natasha makes eye contact with him, trying to read him back before she drops his eyes. He sees guilt in hers, he thinks. “I’m not asking you to be my partner,” she says. “One time.”

And yet, she’s still asking for that temporary partnership. Something’s going on.

“Fine,” he says. “But the split better be half.”

“Alright,” she nods, and that’s another red flag.

“And I want to pick where we eat next time. And also I want a truthful answer to one question of my choosing.”

Natasha regards him. If he had to guess, she’ll lie if the question is too prying. “Okay,” she says. “Tomorrow, I’ll come pick you up at three.”

“You waited to ask until today?” he says incredulously.

“I didn’t know.”

“Hey Tash?”

“What.”

That was a test. She let the nickname slide. Hell yeah.

“Why is this particular assassination so high-stakes for you?” he asks. “What’s making you nervous? Cuz if you’re nervous, I don’t know that I’ll follow through and show up.”

“I’m not nervous,” she says.

“Hey Tash?” he says again.

“What,” she snaps.

“If you’re gonna lie to me basically all the time, at least don’t fuckin insult me too.”

He’d consider storming out if this wasn’t his apartment. As it is, he has to just wait for the gears in her mind to stop turning. “I meant no insult,” she says, in the crazy stiff way that means she’s being sincere.

“And yet you’re still nervous.”

“Yes,” she admits. “But not because the job will be hard.”

“Well. Okay, then. Sounds good. Any particular outfit?”

Natasha shakes her head decisively. “You’ll be at a distance.” 

“And you?”

“I have the rest handled.”

 

 

It goes off without a hitch, almost too easy. It doesn’t feel good, offing a fucking war hero. He thinks about the things he’s done to survive and it feels a little less skin-crawlingly gross to be in his skin, but it’s still bad.

“Want pizza?” Natasha asks on the train back.

“I’m never doing that shit again,” he says, looking out the window. “Are we clear?”

Her momentary silence, as usual, says it all. “Yes.”

“I want sausage, pepperoni, and green pepper pizza,” he says. “From Romano’s.” 

“Okay.”

 

 

They sit at one of the perpetually-greasy tables in Romano’s tiny storefront to eat. The lights are fluorescent or neon, all surfaces grey or green tile. It’s loud in every sense of the word, but neither of them want to go home.

Natasha avoids looking at him for the first two pieces. She lets her hair fall in her face, and is very involved in eating instead of social interaction. He’s fine with that. He couldn’t really stand to look her in the eyes and know what they’ve done anyways.

“What’s your question?” she finally says.

“Why’d you do this?” he asks. “Not for the money.”

Natasha looks up at him, but he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to know if she’s going to tell him the truth.

“When a person has to make tough choices,” she begins in a low voice. “The outcomes are rarely… ideal. And if those choices are made in rebellion to a larger power, the morality of the situation will be murky by necessity. For a while.”

“How is it murky? What we just did.”

“It is from my end,” she says. “And you let me manipulate you.”

“No, I did not,” he says sharply. “I most certainly did not.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then why did you come?”

“To help you. Because you needed help, and you asked,” he says, already grumpy in advance at how stupid that sounds. Stupid and emotional, which isn’t what the two of them have established, between them.

Natasha doesn’t answer for a while. Clint makes it through another slice and a half of pizza.

“No more assassinations.” Her hair clashes vibrantly with the decor. “If you continue helping.”

“I cannot believe your fucking nerve,” Clint tells her.

The first time he’s ever seen her swallow hard. A tell she must be letting herself have. “Clint,” she says, and stops.

“There better be more coming,” he says.

“Thank you,” she says, and he looks at her in surprise.

Clint chews the bite in his mouth, and finally says, “Don’t stop now. Keep it going, I like that track.”

“I regret coercing you into betraying your code of morals.”

“Good. You should, because that’s hard to do. I grew up with a bunch of carnies, I don’t have much of a code.” Down to one slice of pizza each. They’re going to finish it. “Don’t do that to me again. You aren’t paying me enough for it.”

“Understood.”

She is paying him a lot, though. The money transferred into his account the moment the hit was completed. He hadn’t thought to ask before, so the amount is kind of a shock. For two reasons.

“It only costs a quarter mil to knock out a man like that?” he asks when he sees her next, in line to get some gritty, bitter coffee from the Greek place with the blue awning.

“No, that’s just my cut,” she says. “One percent.” 

Clint purposefully doesn’t do the math. “You need to negotiate better,” he says.

“I got what I wanted,” Natasha says.

He considers, all through the wait and the first - as always, disappointing - sip of coffee. “Leverage?” he asks.

“Of a sort,” she agrees. “Will you move to a better apartment?”

“Hell no. I have equipment needs. There’s a sick compound bow I’ve had my eye on. And I basically always need arrows. Debts to pay. Probably need some kind of outfit for the crime-committing. I’ve got a whole list. ” He doesn’t have a list, but it’s a good rhetoric device. “What are you spending your half on?”

“Supplies,” she says. “Accommodations. Emergency preparedness.”

That’s a good idea. Clint should prepare for emergencies. They happen basically every other day, for him. Even more often now that he knows Natasha.

“What debts?” Natasha says. “Student loans?”

Clint snorts. “No. I didn’t graduate from high school, dude. Debts to people in the neighborhood.”

“Sharks?”

“Nah, just friendly bets. They gave me shit, I owe them. That kind of thing.”

She walks next to him in silence for several blocks. “Tell me,” she says when they’re waiting to cross a street. “If you need help.”

“Oh, I’m going to. I’m gonna call you when I have a goddamn jaywalking ticket I want to get out of. Consider yourself on call,” Clint says irritably. He is actually pissed about this. Not for nationalism, but because she kinda did manipulate him. And he doesn’t like being manipulated.

“Understood,” Natasha says, in a tone that’s relatively mild even for her. Good. She knows she fucked up.

“And your first job is to help me. Some Chinese heavyweights are knocking around the Johnsons, trying to extort them for protection. And there is no other place to get an acceptable mac and cheese and fried chicken meal for five dollars, so that’s not going to happen.”

She doesn’t object, necessarily. “You’re going to protect them?” she says.

“Yeah. And?”

“You never miss. You use a bow and arrow. And you’re going to anonymously do some good.”

Clint looks at her. “What’s your point.”

“Sounds a lot like a superhero,” she says innocently, and he’s so upset he almost drops his coffee.

He doesn’t tell her his secret identity. She’ll just tease, and then use it against him probably. “Fuck you, dude. You’re on call, and you’re coming with.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but she comes. And she helps. So maybe they are friends after all.

 

 

The unfortunate fact is that he needs money more than he can afford to have morals. He’s done some shitty things for cash. The occasional espionage isn’t that bad. Or so he tells himself. So the next time Natasha mentions something around him, hoping he’ll volunteer, he does.

“Fine,” he says. “But no more heads of state here. I don’t shit where I eat.”

She looks surprised for the briefest fraction of a second, which is how he knows he really got her. “No,” she says, looking back down at her notebook. They’re in the park, because she wants to be there for some unexplained reason. “This is information-gathering. Your presence will hopefully be unnecessary. A precaution.”

“Then okay. When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

He doesn’t mention how last-minute this is, but he knows she knows he’s thinking about it. “Okay. What’s the paycheck?”

“Less than before. Half. And a sixty-forty split. Most of the work will be in my strengths.”

“Fair enough.” He’s not trying to screw anybody here. “If it goes well, I might even be able to get that new apartment,” he says, to lighten the mood.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“That’s very fair,” he admits.

“You may have acquired further debts by then,” she continues.

Oh, so she’s going to keep the banter going. Not typically her vibe. But maybe her vibe is changing. “Probably,” he says. “People are inclined to be generous with me.”

“You grift them,” she says flatly.

“Well. Potato tomato.”

Nat looks at him with genuine curiosity then, before apparently answering the question for herself. She shuts her book. “You’re weird,” she says.

“Ouch. I mean, yeah.” He shrugs.

“Is that why you like me?” she asks bluntly.

“I wouldn’t say I like you,” he lies, very weakly and so he feels no need to correct himself. “We’re not weird in the same way.”

“No. But you’re understanding.”

She might be the one with the outwardly awkward affect, but Clint’s certain he could give her a run for her money when it comes to emotional walls. No question. “Nat, I don’t ask about your clearly super interesting super spy background.”

“Yes you do.”

“But I don’t push.”

She pauses for a moment. “Reciprocity,” she finally says.

“Sure. That’s one way to put what I’m saying.”

Nat makes a note in her notebook that may or may not be related. “I previously worked for the Russian government,” she says out of fucking nowhere. “It is closely guarded information that I no longer serve their interests.”

Clint takes a sip of his long-cold coffee and does his best not to smile. “Tell me something interesting for once,” he says. “I grew up in a circus. Beat that.”

“I’ll try to.” She’s got a secret smile that she hides almost completely, but just almost.

He has another sip, to be ultra casual. “Not looking forward to a Russian winter,” he says. “Those are like, historically famously bad.”

“They are,” she agrees. “Dress warmly.”

 

 

“I want you to meet my superior,” Natasha says. Her tone is flat and bland, as it always is, but her shoulders are tighter than usual and she makes a little more eye contact than usual. So this is a big deal.

“Wow, Nat,” Clint says. “Milestone. Will he give me the shovel talk?”

“Is this a colloquialism I’m unaware of?”

“I’m glad I’m familiar with that term now so I can tell you yes, it is, it means the whole thing a dad tells the dude dating his daughter, usually, about like if you hurt her he’ll kill you. That whole thing. It was a joke,” he adds.

She gives him a stern look, eyebrow cocked. “I was aware.”

“So, are you going to tell me to leave with you now, in an unmarked car or something?” 

“If you’re available right now, there is a car.”

“You’re not even joking.”

“I am not,” she agrees. “Shall we?”

“Can I put on pants without holes?”

“I would recommend it.”

It’s a black town car, which doesn’t exactly seem like a good sign, but he’s been overseas with Natasha. He can’t exactly draw a line at a car. Even when it goes to a shiny tall building that’s more glass than anything else, he can’t exactly get out mid-intersection. So he doesn’t.

The seal in the ground they walk across clears up what exactly this is; even Clint knows what SHIELD is. “Is now the time for questions?” he asks as they’re led through hallways.

“No,” she answers shortly. “Thank you for asking.”

Cool. Very cool. He remains extremely cool as he gets deeper into this building which seems to be made entirely of marble and dim lighting. And then they’re let into an office, which seems not to have any doors whatsoever. So that’s fucking great. They sit in the uncomfortable minimal chairs and wait, in silence. Clint thinks about asking a question, but Nat shushes him before he does. So they wait. In silence. For like a minute.

Then the guy walks in, and that’s not any better. He’s tall, bald, black, and he has an eye patch. Quite a visage. Clint shifts in his seat.

“So. You’re the motherfucker Romanov has pulled out of the gutter,” the man says.

“That’s your last name?” Clint says to Natasha. She exhales through her nose, jaw clenched.

“She’s tight-lipped as ever, I see,” the man says, sitting down at the desk. His chair is notably much more comfortable-looking. “You have any special powers?”

“Charm,” Clint says. “Charisma.”

“Nothing,” Natasha answers for him. “He’s just extremely well-trained.”

The man steeples his fingers, elbows on the table, and fixes his single eye on Clint. The covered one has the edges of a gnarly scar peeking out. “How old are you?”

“Twenty four.”

“Ever held a real job?”

“I flipped burgers for a couple weeks, but then some dude tried to rob the place and I got fired.”

“Were you the one robbing the place?”

Clint shakes his head. “No, but I threw some stuff at them. Knocked them out, but then that scared them. So. Got fired. Who exactly are you?”

“I’m not sure you get to know that yet. Not unless you’re interested in working for me.”

“Working for you? Like, the government?”

The dude just looks at him.

“Not really a government job kind of guy. So. Probably not. Do I have to?”

“Do you have to,” he repeats.

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, y’know. To help Natasha with her stuff.”

The man narrows his eyes. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, could you make your mind up? Cuz if my income stream is going to dry up, I’d kind of like some warning.”

Natasha’s smiling. “It’s reasonable,” she says dryly.

“This idiot child, this is who you’ve decided needs to be at your side?” the man says. “Really? I’m gonna need a better pitch.”

“He never misses a shot. His tactical analysis is fast, mid-combat especially, and he can hold his own in espionage situations. Smart to get him in before someone else finds his shitty apartment. And we work well together,” Natasha adds. The most she’s ever said about him.

Clint and the eyepatch man seem to be similarly speechless. “Alright,” eyepatch finally says. “He’s an approved contractor.”

“Good.”

“Good?” Clint repeats, turning to look at Natasha. “I needed to be approved?”

Natasha refuses to answer, but she seems vaguely amused. “He’s a good asset to acquire,” she says.

“I need some answers,” Clint addresses both of them. “What’s the situation here?”

“I’m Nick Fury,” the man says. “And somehow, you’ve managed to get the trust of our most secretive agent. Want to provide any insight?”

Clint does not. It makes leaving a lot more difficult.

Finally they’re out, in a car heading back. “What the precise fuck, dude,” Clint says. “You’re a double-agent and your boss has one eye?”

“Which are you more upset about me not telling you?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know.”


End file.
